


A Life Unlived

by kalimero



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-13 06:51:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7966744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalimero/pseuds/kalimero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Captain Flint stares at the bottle of rum in his hand and wonders where it all went wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Life Unlived

**Author's Note:**

> A kind of sequel to [A Tale Untold](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7913476).
> 
> I recommend that you read that first but it’s not a must. (ETA: Also, this was written and posted before S4 and has by now become non-canon compliant. Which I'm fine with btw because the ending on the show was actually not as grim as what I had envisaged here :D This can be read as an alternate tie-in of the show with Treasure Island.)

  ~*~

 

It burns. Not the rum trickling down his throat in exercised excruciating patience. Not the scratches on his palms where he tore his skin yesterday after stumbling to the ground. That pain is welcome. It numbs that which burns.

They are all dancing and laughing and he thinks that he might hate them more for it than he should. Yes, he begrudges them their happiness, even if it is no happiness at all and only a drug-fuelled frenzy. He begrudges even that. He knows that he should hate himself for failing to belong to that world, for failing to belong to Thomas’ world, for not allowing Miranda to belong to that world again. But he has exhausted all the hate a man can have for himself when he feels strongly that every fault in him is there because others willed it so. And so he hates them. In a way. He has for a long time, on some days more, on some less. On some days he was able to kill strangers without blinking because they were a part of it, that evil that forced him in opposition against itself, society, the Empire, the Navy, whatever it was. On other days he felt remorse. Self-loathing only when there was nothing else to feel and no one else to loathe. More strongly, when there was someone else to love.

But now he is sitting here, in a tavern, the distance of time between himself and that past, and he cannot spend the hatred pent up in him, he cannot kill, he cannot fight, he cannot shout. He cannot turn it on himself without turning it away again, some petrified crumb of resistance left in him, that he will surely take to the grave and, when a heavenly chorus claims him, exert. Thomas is there, of course, but he cannot join him, even if he believes in it only to believe that he is there.

James McGraw guides the bottle to his mouth, barely noticing the chip in the glass cutting into his lip. The taste of blood lingers, mingles with the rum, slips from the tip of his tongue. It tastes like anything else. We drink to feel.

They sing of Captain Flint, that woman and the merchant crew, and here sits McGraw. Who knew that if you assumed a different persona and name and morphed into that person over time – that if you left behind your old self like a coat in a wardrobe – you would only find that coat again, not the man who wore it? A shell, a name, the person buried, unable to resurface? Who knew, he asks himself often. He didn’t. He hadn’t wanted to keep pretending to be Flint and then he had become Flint and now he had unbecome and was no more or more than ever, he struggled to tell. Was he McGraw? Would McGraw have sat here and wasted those years and his life and himself? No. He would have believed there was something to waste and that would have infuriated him. People didn’t rise through the ranks to be degraded, let alone degrade themselves. People didn’t put in all that effort to… be, only then not to be.

Sometimes he wonders what his father would say to him now. He used to think that when he had just been made a Lieutenant. His father had never tried to rise above his station. He had never aspired for more than the simple life he had led. He had drunk himself to death. James sees the fate in that. Maybe he would have ended up this way, no matter what he had done. Maybe he had been foolish to believe he could be different, want more, become more. But, he has to admit, he could have stopped at any point. Wanting more had not been the problem. He had wanted too much.

“McGraw, want some more?” the barmaid asks just in that moment in a cruel twist on his thoughts, having crept up on him. He rarely sees people coming anymore. They fade in and out of his line of sight.

He cannot say yes. And he cannot bring himself to say no. It burns. It burns far worse than a memory ever could. What is done is done, there is no control over that. He could have control here, in the present, if he just…

The barmaid huffs, mops the edges of his table with a dirty rag and proceeds to other customers, presumably some who are not owing her money. He almost has to laugh maniacally at that, his mind corrupted still by the temptation of the gold once at his fingertips. But there is no humour in all of this, of course. Only death and destruction and, worst of all, love lost.

 

~*~

_“Here, have you read that?” Thomas says enthusiastically, the way only he can sound enthusiastic about a book full of ideas and little else._

_“I do not believe so,” James judges, furrowing his brow and taking the book into his hands with great care. He always does that and it amuses his lover for some reason. James won’t say it but he supposes that they were taught differently about the value of such items. In his case, he wasn’t taught those values at home, of course, it was something he taught himself. When he turns the leaves in a half-abandoned caress, Thomas gets that little smile that speaks of pure fondness and sometimes he leans over and kisses him as if to say: These books will not fall apart by your touch but I love you for caring._

_Of course, Thomas thinks that books are merely carriers of knowledge, that they go beyond its physical manifestation on a page, that one book can be replaced by another, even though he treats them well enough that this never occurs. It is a matter of wealth, in both education and access. When James looks at a book, he sees a door. And he cannot take for granted that when it closes, another will open._

_“_ De re publica _by Marcus Tullius Cicero,” James dryly cites from the spine of the book. When Thomas doesn’t understand the lack of excitement and looks at him with the most innocent wounded expression, James cannot suppress a grin. “I am flattered that you believe my modest Latin would allow me to read this.”_

_Immediately, Thomas softens his stance, ever understanding and slightly chastised._

_“I will find a translation.”_

_“What, you cannot translate it yourself?” James teases and when Thomas moves to grab the book from him, he stretches to keep it out of reach. They tussle in a way that would seem undignified to an observer, if that person were of a joyless existence. Two grown naked men laughing and rolling around on a bed, well, there is much about that that would cause offence._

_Sometimes, James likes to annoy Thomas just the slightest bit and he can tell that he is getting annoyed now. He is not used to not getting his way. Influence coupled with convictions is a strong toxin that would ruin any lesser character. It’s one of the great mysteries of life how Thomas came to be who he is and why he continues to be that person. Kind. Forgiving. Occasionally annoyed, yes, but in a way that makes him press his soft lips against James’ shoulder in a benevolent apology after he has finally snatched the book._

_Strangely enough, James – who is used to getting his way as well – feels no real desire for it when he is in the company of Thomas. So he rests his head on his hands and looks at him curiously._

_“What is it about?”_

_“The best form of government,” Thomas replies scholarly, running his fingers over the pages in search of a particular passage._

_“How so?”_

_“The theory of the state was a popular topic at the time. Cicero refers to Plato and other writers, using a fictional conversation to make his point. Of course, all he wants to do is to prove that the constitution of the Roman Republic is the best one there possible can be because it mixes elements from monarchy, aristocracy and democracy. Monarchy is the rule of one, aristocracy the rule of the best and democracy the rule of the people. But there are flaws inherent in them that lead them to degenerate into tyranny, oligarchy and ochlocracy. The rule of one person over time becomes the rule of a despot, the rule of the best becomes the rule of the few, the rule of the people becomes the rule of the mob. Only by balancing a constitution, it can be stable. So in the Roman Republic you had the consuls, which was the highest office in the cursus honorum, as a monarchic element, the senate as an aristocratic element and the tribunes of the plebs as a democratic element. Am I boring you?”_

_James blearily closes and opens his eyes, feigning having fallen asleep._

_“Very well, I shall carry on then. Ah, here is a part that explains it well,” Thomas exclaims full of energy and when he reads the passage slowly but in perfectly good English, James feels… everything. Love. Awe. Shame._

_“’With respect, however, to absolute monarchy, it presents an inherent and invincible tendency to revolution. No sooner does a king begin to be unjust than this entire form of government is demolished, and he at once becomes a tyrant, which is the worst of all governments, and one very closely related to monarchy.’”_

_And on and on and on it goes and James thinks that it might be the most perfect afternoon of his life._

 

~*~

 

He has no clear memories anymore. They have faded, become obscure, faint images that are darkened around the edges. He feels more than he sees. Ghost touches, ghost breath on his skin, because his body remembers where his soul does not. In the exhaustion of his pain, he can sense what caused his sorrow, though he cannot reach down that well. When Miranda was still alive, he could at least do that. With her gone, the tether to all that was good, the life worth living, was severed forever, he knows that now and thinks that he knew it from the moment her head hit the floorboard, silenced by a bullet. The dark path that followed was a spectre of things to come. Halted only momentarily by his strange affection for Silver… John, who had never… who had…

James blinks. His head is heavy. So very heavy. A dull throbbing travels along his skull and he groans wearily and shifts in his seat as if hanging in ropes. These recollections never upset him. They never come crushing down on him. They are there, all the time. No, this is the rum.

He drinks some more.

 

~*~

 

_“Are you alright?” John asks and James nods, covered in blood and then covered in John’s hands searching his body for injuries. This is the first time they have seen each other in months. John came to his aid at a sea battle against Rogers, with the support of his wife Madi and the Maroons. He has helped with their relocation to a new encampment. Now the battle is done, Blackbeard is dead and Nassau is lost. John and James have scarcely escaped with their ships and lives. Lieutenant Robert Maynard, who they saw behead Teach, is giving chase. Rogers is retreating to Nassau._

_A sense of doomed urgency spans between them. They are alone in the captain’s quarters – Flint’s quarters. The crew is working above deck to keep the distance to Maynard. Wind favours them but the day is not over yet. James knows that he has to show his face again soon, give orders, take command. He hadn’t wanted to leave the helm, had to be forced by John to let him treat his wounds because “you won’t be of any use to us if you’re dead”. James complied in the end. The blood is not his. Not most of it, anyway. He doesn’t know why he grudgingly followed John below deck. Now they are alone. Together. For the first time in months._

_“We can still win,” John says, dressing the few deeper cuts he can find._

_James says nothing._

_No, they can’t win. He has faced worse odds when there was no other way but he also knows when he is beaten. Even if they reclaim Nassau, they will not be able to hold onto it. What’s more, in the last months without John at his side he has realized that he is fighting a lost cause. He is surrounded by idiots, rebelling against an impenetrable force, throwing away his life for subjects undeserving of the freedom he has promised them. He realized this when he last came face to face with Rogers under the flag of truce, their third meeting. James saw a good man being grinded to dust because he dared to restore order, a man destroyed by the price for his success left for others to enjoy and profit from. James feels a kinship there, like one feels when staring into a twisted mirror, because he is equally unable to uphold chaos for his own benefit._

_What he can do is prepare a contingency plan in the dark, even if it will ultimately mean leaving his crew to their fate. They chose it themselves, after all._

_John would not approve, naturally. And he might see some of the defeatism in his eyes for he halts in his motions._

_Will he try to give him a motivational speech? Convince him not to abandon his ideals? If only he knew how they had been forged. He had told him, of course, but that was not the same as knowing._

_John stares at him with an unfaltering gaze, almost enough to make James squirm. Then he surges forward and claims his mouth with his, sudden, rough, with his scratching beard and the taste of blood between them that tastes like anything else and mostly him. He is holding him in place with the lightest pressure on his abdomen, his fingers sinking into the bandages he last secured, the white cloth staining red and redder._

_James has the instinct to push him away but instead he doesn’t move at all. For the briefest of moments, he has the panicked thought: What the FUCK are you doing? You don’t know me. You know Flint._

_But then he realizes that_ he _is Flint and chokes on urges buried within. Thomas was never the only one but after him there could be no other, he denied himself the pleasure as a form of punishment, serving Miranda only when she needed the relief. He hears her voice, accusing him of abstaining out of guilt, of fashioning himself into an inhumane creature devoid of feeling joy for its own sake._

_John’s hand on his groin drowns her out and James doesn’t know whether he feels manipulated because he WANTS this but also knows that John knows that he wants this because John knows these things and it might be his way of guiding him back to the living and fuck, this is nothing like Thomas and it’s the only reason he finds this bearable, he thinks, but then, there is not much to think and he might be completely wrong because pleasure is pleasure and that is that._

_It is best that they do not speak, John’s breath hot on his skin, his touches full of purpose because he is long past the point of no return. He is saying it with his hands now, “we can still win”, when he unfastens James’ belt, drags his trousers down and grabs him, embracing him and pushing him and mouthing something unintelligible against his lips where they are not clinging to his, driving him into oblivion until his eyelids flutter shut and tears well up inside him._

_The air is sticky and hot and filled with gasps and then there is nothing more to it. Over too soon. Breathe. Breathe. Taking in the air. Refilling the lungs. Trembling. Burning. Collapsing._

_James is spent. They lean on each other and it is best that they do not speak._

_Someone knocks on the door._

 

~*~

 

_The treasure has to be hidden, that much is clear. The Spanish will never stop pursuing it and demanding what is theirs. James thinks about distributing it amongst the crew and sending them on their way but discards the idea quickly. None of the men can handle a little fortune, let alone a large one. If the Spanish found just one thread to pull at, the whole scheme would unravel._

_There are only two options: return all of it or bury all of it. They can’t return all of it, of course, because some egotistical individuals have already taken their share of the pie without consultation or reprimand. James is loath to think of Max, Jack and Anne. But no matter. They are all headed for their own retribution now. He has to bury the rest of it without a way to trace it back to him. Maybe then he and John can…_

_But that is a question for later._

_He watches his men dig and pities them. How cruel it must be to be so intellectually challenged as not to discern his machination. He could spare their lives. But then the whole plan would be for naught. This is the only way. He valued his cause above theirs and now he values his life equally above. Secretly, James even hopes to return one day to retrieve the gold. It would be a shame to leave it rotting in the earth. Maybe it could still yield some good. He will simply have to wait a few years until the Spanish are otherwise engaged, perhaps in another war or two._

_Once the cache is safely stored away, he looks into the faces of the few men he selected for this mission and wonders how to proceed. Who will put up the most resistance? Should he take them all on at once here? Or separately on the way back? It’s probably safest to do it here, lest one of them reaches the periagua._

_They don’t see it coming. One moment they are all huddled together at the place of burial, the next he has dispatched two of them from behind, stabbing them in the back with blows that are sure to kill; he is not a cruel man who would want to prolong their suffering. They fight back, as best as they can, but that means nothing to him. Blood splashes a red pattern into the sand. One of them starts to get away, a lad barely above the age of twenty, and for a moment, James is terrified that he miscalculated, that somehow, this young man will find a way to operate their boat alone and sail back to the Walrus and inform the others. James has no plans of returning there. He would never be able to explain the absence of his expedition team._

_So he breathes a sigh of relief when he catches the boy, angry that he couldn’t take only older crew members without evoking suspicion. They couldn’t have run. And they couldn’t have resisted like the boy does now, a boy he believes to be going by the name of Philipp. They wrestle until James gets hold of a nearby rock and bashes his head in, once, twice. The skull cracks and blood seeps out underneath, darkening the brown, tousled hair of the boy._

_Man. He wasn’t a boy. James tells himself that, uncomfortably reminded of his fight with Singleton a few years ago, his rage, that blank page. He is calm now. That is, perhaps, worse._

_It is only when he rests next to the hidden treasure, downing a bottle of rum, that he notices his hands shaking._

 

~*~

 

_The deed is done. Now he only has to get off this island and find a way to get a message to John._

 

~*~

 

Someone sits down at his table.

James blinks.

The greeting comes in the form of a low whisper:

“Captain.”

A man, aged from when he last saw him, sporting an impressive beard, his appearance rugged around the edges, his face as unreadable as ever.

Billy.

James blinks again, as if afflicted with an apparition. But no, Billy is really there, he is really in this lowly tavern in Savannah, sitting opposite of him, staring at him. Unflinching. Eager to speak but waiting for a sign of life and recognition.

James inclines his heavy head, his head swimming with rum, and narrows his eyes. Can this be true? And more importantly: How? Or why? Or why should he care?

Before he can remember how to form words and string them together in a sentence, one of girls trading in the oldest profession of the world stalks over to them. The one who sang earlier tonight, if he is not mistaken. Raven hair, grown unruly from dancing, and a petite frame that cannot quite fill the corset she has forced herself into. Gingerly, she places a hand on Billy’s shoulder.

“Can I interest you in a game of cards?” she says, pointing to a different table where a round of whist is under way. Although she is talking to Billy, her curious gaze lands on James and he wonders why. Billy himself keeps his stare fixed on his former captain.

“No thank you…,” not knowing her name and ever being the gentleman, he finally looks up.

“Effi,” she supplies with a hint of disappointment.

“No thank you, Effi.”

“Maybe later,” she smiles in a way that’s not quite genuine, eyeing them both up and down before retreating.

James remains silent.

_So, how did you find me?_

He doesn’t need to say it. Billy knows. The man doesn’t relax; indeed, something about him is deadly serious, much more so than usually. It might have to do with Flint murdering some of his comrades, not to mention the unforgiven incidents of the past such as… what happened with Gates. James doesn’t care to remember this. He cannot.

Instead he thinks about the trivial. Flint. He rolls the name around in his head.

“You’re not a hard man to find,” Billy admits almost nonchalantly, now leaning back in an open display of casualness despite the obvious tension in his muscles.

He is not here for justice, that much James can tell. Otherwise he would be dead already. He also doubts that he is easy to find for anyone not familiar with his true name, which Billy must have known from reading Miranda’s letter. And even then, it cannot be easy or it wouldn’t have taken him years.

Emptying his bottle, he suspects that Billy is after the gold. He has certainly always felt wronged by him, by Flint, so seeking recompense is well within reason. James doesn’t know how he feels about that. How he feels about disclosing the location of the gold to anyone. It harbours only misfortune. Something he would wish on Billy the least of anyone he knows.

The barmaid comes to serve Billy, evidently not counting on anyone making their way to her anymore, not tonight with the merchant crew celebrating. He orders a beer. James indicates his bottle to her and she understands. Then they are left in silence again, assessing each other through looks.

There is so much they could talk about. But there is only one thing that truly interests James:

_How did you know that I’m still alive?_

 

~*~

 

_It is quite unfortunate that John seems to have cared about him. Had he not, he would not have instructed the crew to follow the expedition and rendezvous with the periagua much earlier than agreed upon. He may have had the feeling that something bad was happening. As it is, James had barely left the group of islands behind when the Walrus had intercepted him. Once on board, it had become quite clear what had really happened and yes, it had been a bad thing, at least from the point of view of the crew._

_Philipp had left scratch marks in James’ face._

_Now he is facing his execution. John remained mum during the tumultuous mutiny that ensued, led by Mr. de Groot. He is still not speaking. James knew that he wouldn’t understand but he is surprised how much it tears at him to see John’s face so frozen, the man’s worst fears confirmed. There is disappointment in himself there as well, that he could not prevent it. It is the same unwavering and yet broken expression that those must wear who witness a dear friend succumb to an addiction, self-destructive, reliant on tears of the poppy to wake and sleep._

_“Do you have any last words?” Mr. de Groot asks without any interest, simply out of human decency. He must feel vindicated. The crew is shouting. They bore so much, followed him so far, all for the promise of gold._

_Now they are going to make him walk the plank._

_“I…” James starts, about to give a speech that will not change their minds but resonate in their memory long after he is gone. Then he falters. Thinks. Looks at John. John, who is standing perfectly calm at the side of his wife. He hasn’t always sailed with him in the last years but when he has, she was there. For a strange reason, it had not mattered. That was them and this was_ them _. If James was a different man, he would spare more than a thought for Madi. He likes her. Admires her even. He doesn’t love her like he loved Miranda. But he also isn’t bound to her in a shared tragedy. That makes her a stranger, like almost everyone else in his life._

_“I wish it had not come to this,” he finally says, loud and assured. It rings hollow. What he means to say is: This is not what I had planned._

_For a moment, he locks eyes with John and doesn’t know what he sees there. He never knew. He wanted to believe that there was something there other than opportunism, that they were friends and maybe more, but he is not sure what love is other than what it was with Thomas. If love is the way his heart constricts just now, if love is regretting something not for his own but another person’s sake, if love is wishing to turn back time and do better, then yes, there is a kind of love between them, at least from him._

_The realization breathes some life into his withered soul, in time for it to die in bloom. A small solace, if there ever was one._

_John steps forward but James cannot resist firing one last threat in the direction of his men, suddenly feeling defiant once more, defiant against everyone who ever dictated his life to him._

_“I will await you in hell!” he shouts grimly and sees some men physically recoil. Good. Shall they be afraid for the rest of their existence. The world is a place to fear._

_John is now tying his hands together, looking at the way his fingers work intently, whereas James is watching his face, so close for the last time. His features are twisted with hatred and more, lamenting stupidity and ignorance and- John looks ready to explode. His body is shaking; his eyes have watered._

_There is something in there that James doesn’t understand and it infuriates him. What was so lamentable about what he did anyway? They have all killed. The righteousness is laughable. Greed is what it is, nothing else, greed and anger over the lost gold. They tried to beat the location of the treasure out of him. Even if they knew which of the islands he had chosen, they would never find it without a map. He didn’t say anything, of course, grinning through bloodied teeth._

_But that is not what is upsetting John. Before James can figure it out, he is being blindfolded. The logic being, if he cannot see where he is going and happens to fall into the sea and drown, no one is liable for murder. Which is silly since they are all liable for piracy and mutiny in any case. But James eschews to protest, wondering whether this is not all rather amusing to them even without his insults to their intelligence._

_Someone guides him to the plank and pushes him onto it. He cannot tell if it’s John. The plank gives way under his weight, dipping down. He staggers forward. Laughter rings in his ears. It is then that James takes a deep breath, sprints what he has estimated the length of the plank to be, and jumps._

_~*~_

_Hitting the cold water hurts like the hell that lies beneath, the hell at the bottom of the ocean that he is sinking towards. Almost all of the air is pressed out of his lungs on impact. The blindfold has slipped off on its own accord but there is nothing to see. James struggles against the rope around his wrists, more out of an instinct than a hope. The currents are starting to drag him down and if this is not the end, there will be none that feels so much like one._

_But- he can feel the rope loosening. Another tug and it falls away, freeing his hands and arms to_ swim _. And if there is something that James has learned in his time in the Navy, it is this._

_Moving smoothly despite the panic rising in him with every second deprived of oxygen, he soon reaches the surface, breaking through with a gasp that he has the presence of mind to muffle with his hand. He dives closer to the hull of the ship to shield himself from any observers, not quite able to comprehend his luck. But was it luck?_

_He realizes that John has saved his life or at least given him the chance to save himself. He realizes that John could not have tied the knot correctly and by now the man is a good enough sailor that he must have done it on purpose._

_What that means, he does not know._

_There was hatred in his face. Hatred for him, definitely. Maybe also self-hatred for attaching himself to someone who he wanted to attach himself to him. Maybe…_

_James will not call it love._

 

~*~

 

_They are still anchored near the archipelago._

_He waits for night to fall, then he steels himself and swims towards the nearest island, diving as long as he is close to the Walrus and saving strength later on by risking having his head above the water, reaching the beach with his last reserves, collapsing with exhaustion. He passes out and when he awakes, the sun has risen and the Walrus has left._

_But the periagua is still there, lying in wait not far away. He wonders what nonsense John must have told the crew to convince them that they needed to rid themselves of ballast. That had always been his talent._

_A fond smile grazes his lips, strangely enough, since he has not smiled in a long time._

_Then he sobers and realizes that he will never see him again._

 

~*~

 

“There were rumours,” Billy says by way of explaining how he picked up his trail and James is not surprised. Not even that there are ones with credibility. He was bound to be recognized here and there, that was why he kept moving.

Billy. He hadn’t thought about Billy in a while. During the final mutiny, his first mate had been in prison, incarcerated for his revolutionary activities. For the first time since Billy walked in and sat down out of nowhere, James feels compelled to say something and he does, with a croaking voice, clearly out of practice, slurring faintly, but still somehow in command:

“When did you get out?”

“Couple of years ago.”

Billy keeps his eyes trained on him, searching for something. James’ lips curl into the hint of a grin. He is the key to the gold. And isn’t that what everyone always wanted from him? After Thomas and Miranda and… not everyone, then. Most.

The ordered beverages come and he immediately resumes his drinking, carefully watched by Billy. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he breaks eye contact and murmurs into his bottle:

“Know what happened to Silver?”

He himself could have known by now, if he had wanted to. But he had not. For fear of discovery and other reasons unexplained.

“Caught a ship back to the old world, last I heard,” Billy answers in a blasé tone that suggests his indifference. Acquaintances from long ago. Surely he has lived through his share of pain in the decades spent behind bars, not to care about friends who weren’t even that. James wonders whether the man in front of him regrets his actions. Billy has wasted his life in a futile and short-lived attempt to resist the British forces. Then again, is that not true for the both of them?

James does not ask what Billy wants and Billy doesn’t say. They talk very little on that evening of their reunion, that balmy late summer night in 1753. Still, James remembers how much he always valued the company of someone with a keen mind. There were not many people in his life who qualified as such and when he thinks back now, there was only ever one at a time.

 

~*~

 

At some point, Billy takes James’ bottle of rum for himself and doesn’t give it back. If James were sober and awake, he would notice that Billy is not really drinking at all. Some things never change.

 

~*~

 

They do not play cards but when they get up to leave, somehow in accord, Billy tells the woman who approached them:

“Maybe tomorrow.”

 

~*~

 

Outside, James stumbles and Billy catches him, grabbing him by his rumpled coat and slinging one arm of the drunkard over his shoulder to walk him to the inn he is staying at. He never drinks there because the rum tastes like piss. It does have a taste after all.

So does blood.

 

~*~

 

Billy never asks about the gold. He just stays. When James succumbs to his age and failing liver soon thereafter, having lived another few months in relative clarity and sharing stories he never thought he would tell, he draws a map and hands it over.

Billy looks at it and shakes his head. James never understood. He never understood anyone who wasn’t Thomas. And no one understood him like John. All of him. Thomas never knew Flint.

 

~*~

 

The sunlight of an early morning catches in the curtains.

 

~*~

 

There is no heavenly chorus.

 

~*~

 

There is no hell.


End file.
